


Blood-Soaked Blonde

by MorKen



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, French Characters, Human Sebastian, London, Modern Era, Non-demon Sebastian, Organized Crime, White Collar Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 15:59:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorKen/pseuds/MorKen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She enjoyed her life; the money, the excitement, the rewards. All of it. However, everything changed when Ciel Phantomhive and Sebastian Michaelis entered her life. Crime was her calling; now, it seems as if she has no choice but to walk away from it all. However, don't think for a moment that she is going to give it up easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coffee, Knox, and Burberry

She exhaled, allowing a small passageway for the cold air to enter through and seep into her lungs, chilling her to the bone. Small white billows of steam escaped her parted lips. It was too damn cold. Keeping her pace, she glanced up at the flat-buildings that lined the thin street. They were each about three or four stories tall, their windows ablaze with fantastic oranges and yellows, like psychedelic portraits of the morning sun marking the beginning of a new day as it fell upon the rooftops of London, adorning the city with all of the light and heat it could muster. She narrowed her eyes and turned her attention back to the pavement in front of her. Keeping her pace firm, she listened with pleasure as the heels of her Gucci boots clicked tunefully on the sidewalk. Her heart leapt as a vibration began to resonate from her coat pocket. Slipping a Ferragamo-gloved hand into the opening in the fabric, she retrieved the device and, pushing the ‘Answer’ button, held it to her ear; its cold, smooth surface immediately sent a faint shiver through her body as it came into contact with her skin.

“Yes?” Her voice was slightly hoarse, unaccustomed to speech this early in the morning. 

“Morning, Ms. Dufort.” It was Voclain. “I trust you slept well.” His voice was almost patronizing. 

“Enough of the pleasantries,” she muttered darkly. 

“Alright," he replied curtly. “Nine o’clock, then.”

She nodded in response. “The café?” she asked, managing to keep her voice level. She received no answer though, for the line suddenly went dead. She sighed, slipped the phone back into her coat pocket, and resumed walking. She placed her wrist in front of her as she walked, clutching her handbag even closer to her body. 8:45.

“Merde!” she muttered, and began to quicken her pace.

* * *

She sat silently, sipping her coffee as her eyes grazed over the matte, earthy tones that coated the café’s walls and furniture. Brown, beige and forest green painted walls enclosed the fairly small establishment. The furniture was mostly made up of dark brown leather couches, always kept in pristine condition. The tables, chairs, and countertops were a dark finished wood. One couldn’t help but felt calm in this place. It possessed an atmosphere that seemed to put one at ease. Perhaps this was why Voclain always chose this café in particular for her exchanges.

She clutched her handbag tightly, not wanting to part with it, though she knew she had to. She sipped her coffee once more and watched as a familiar man entered through the opaque doors. He immediately headed toward the back - to her usual table. She narrowed her eyes slightly, watching as he sauntered over. His strides were long and shifted slightly from side-to-side. Arriving at the table, the young man pulled out the chair facing her and slumped into it, flicking his dyed blond and black hair back with his gloved hand casually as he did so. She rolled her eyes slightly, not in the mood for Ronald Knox and his antics.

“Voclain usually sends me a different man every time. Yet he has sent you to me four times in a row, now. Why is that?” His head snapped toward her and smirked devilishly.

“Well good mornin’ to you, too, Ms. Dufort,” he greeted, chuckling. She watched as his laughter shook his square-rimmed glasses down the bridge of his nose. She offered no greeting in return, instead staring harshly at him as he watched her and eventually managed to compose himself. Shoving his glasses back up into their rightful position in a sloppy movement with his finger, he casually draped an arm over the back of the chair and returned her stare.

“Ignoring the fact you did not answer my question, may we please get this over with?” she asked, sighing tiredly. He chuckled again; softer, this time, so that his glasses remained in place.

“No need to get shirty, Dufort,” he replied with a smile. “Whenever you’re ready.” She bit her lip, knowing now was the time she would have to part with her lovely handbag. Reluctantly, she handed the bag over the table to Knox, who’s leather-gloved hand grasped the strap and yanked it toward himself. She forced herself to keep from wincing as she watched his rough movements, unfastening it and pulling its open so that he could peer inside.

“You will find that it is in there,” she commented uninterestedly. “I would never fall short on my end of a deal.” Knox looked up and grinned at her.

“I know, doll. But, you know I still have to have a looksee. Even if you do have a spotless record.” She sighed softly, watching as he thumbed through the small handbag, in search of what she had retrieved the night before. Knox’s eyebrows furrowed a bit as he looked. He was a London native, probably around twenty-two years old or so. A couple of years younger than her, at least. Seeming to find what he had been searching for, Knox closed the bag and looked back up at her.

“You’re English is getting better, doll,” he pointed out. Her eyes narrowed.

“Do not call me _doll_ ,” she warned, ignoring his sarcastic attempt at a compliment. It had been three years since she had moved to London, and though her accent was obvious and her voice was slightly stiff and formal, she was learning the language quite efficiently.

“Sorry,” Knox replied half-heartedly. “Nice bag, though. Burberry, this time, eh?” She gave a small nod as she looked down and sipped her coffee.

“Must be nice bein’ Voclain’s little dress-up doll.” Her eyes snapped up and met his. His bright green eyes glimmered mischievously.

“If I were you, Ronald, I would take care in what I say,” she murmured, setting the cup down on the table once more.

“Ya’ know what, Dufort,” Knox said, leaning closer to her over the table. Her eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to the Burberry bag he still held mercilessly in his undeserving hands. “I think your bark is worse than your bite.” He smiled wickedly. She returned the gesture, tapping her manicured nails lightly on the table.

“If that is what you believe, Knox,” she whispered, “then I pity you. For one day, you will be in for a surprise.” Her voice was barely audible. Knox, though he seemed to believe the majority of her words were a bluff, leaned back and began to stand and stretch.

“Whatever, Dufort. Say what you wish.” He slipped the handbag underneath his arm before putting his black trench coat on, perfectly concealing it. Before leaving, he turned and grinned at her. “Anything you want me to tell the boss?” She tapped her fingers again on the finished wooden table.

“Just tell him he had better get me another one of those,” she replied, pointing toward the small bulge underneath Knox’s arm. Knox glanced down to where she was pointing and, understanding, chuckled and turned.

“Alright,” he called from over his shoulder. “Cheers.” And with that, he exited the café, leaving her sitting alone at the table once again.

* * *

Nearly half-an-hour later, she departed from the café. Her eyelids drooped from behind her D&G sunglasses as she fought to keep herself from dozing as she walked toward her flat, which lay about a twenty minute walk away. She did not have any money with her for a taxi - Voclain would never allow her to ride in such a thing. Thus, she walked practically everywhere she went. Every now and then Voclain would send a personal car to retrieve her if her destination was far enough away or he required her presence as soon as possible. But, usually, she walked.

Suddenly, a police car appeared in her peripheral. She tensed, waiting for the driver to pass her and continue on down the street. Instead, however, the car parked parallel to the sidewalk about twenty meters in front of her. She bit her lip, adrenaline beginning to seep through her body. The driver’s door opened and out stepped a policeman dressed in dark blue. She cursed silently and, her mind racing, allowed her body to take over as she dashed into the nearest shop, just evading the policeman’s eyes.

A bell that hung above the door rang softly as she opened and quickly closed the door behind her, marking her entrance. She was immediately blind-sided by the thick smell of incense as it pervaded her nostrils and seeped into her lungs, nearly choking her. She coughed lightly, fanning the burning incense's visible smoke that hung in the air with her hand, and glanced around the shop. The walls were painted a dark eggplant. Candlestick holders lined the wall, each possessing a long lit silver candle within their grasp, which provided the only light source in the dim room. The walls of the circular room were lined with tall, black wooden bookshelves, a work of art in and of themselves. On them were carved curling, elaborate designs of no particular purpose or image. On their shelves sat what seemed like hundreds upon hundreds of books. Toward the back of the room were two plush armchairs that sat on either side of a small, black, circular wooden table.

“Une librarie?” she wondered aloud softly.

“In some sorts, yes.” She jumped in surprise at the low, hypnotic voice that sounded from behind her. He had understood her? Surprising. Turning around, her gaze fell upon who she assumed to be the shopkeeper. His silvery hair was very long, tied with a black ribbon into a low ponytail and draped over his left shoulder. His hair was cut so that it covered his face, concealing the majority of his eyes, which were a lovely light green. His clothing was completely black, further emphasizing his pale skin. She narrowed her eyes slightly at him and his curious appearance.

“Hello,” she greeted in a monotone voice. He grinned widely at her and gave a low, crackling chuckle, but did otherwise not offer any further greeting. After a moment passed, she turned warily and began walking around, scanning the many shelves of books. The shopkeeper watched her, eyeing as she would occaisonally reach toward a book and pull it out to scan several of its pages. She was well aware of his unnerving gaze, but forced herself not to falter under it. She decided, while slipping another book back into place on a shelf, that she would remain in the shop for only a little longer, hoping that the policeman would be gone by then. Several minutes later, the bell rang, signaling that another person had entered the shop. She quickly glanced over to ensure it was not the policeman, instead locking eyes with a man she had never seen before. She was relieved it was not the policeman who had followed her, but she also found herself slightly perplexed by the man.

His scarlet-colored eyes quickly left hers as he approached the counter and greeted the shopkeeper. They then began conversing in low, hushed tones, which greatly piqued her interest. Her ears itched to hear what they were saying, and she concentrated on making out at least a handful of their words. Her eyes remaining fixated on the book she held in her hands, she craned her neck slightly toward the two men, trying to decipher what they were saying to one another.

“I trust you will assist us?” the red-eyed man murmured. The shopkeeper chuckled audibly and nodded.

“Of course. I rather fancy you and the young lad, after all.” Her eyebrows furrowed in slight confusion and, from her peripheral, she could see the red-eyed man leave a small parcel on the counter in front of the shopkeeper before abruptly turning to leave. Just before he exited, he voiced a polite ‘Thank you’, which the shopkeeper merely returned with a wave of his hand accompanied with more laughter. 

Slipping the book back on the shelf, she began to walk toward the door.

“Find anything of interest?” the shopkeeper asked as she passed his counter. She turned and gave a polite smile.

“Not today, thank you.” The shopkeeper chuckled and, in a sift movement, reached over the counter and latched onto her wrist. Despite her surpise, she remained still and quiet, locking eyes with him and managing to keep her breathing steady, refusing to show any sign of unease.

“Do come back again, will you?” he said, his voice low and cryptic. She raised an eyebrow at him, perplexed.

“Alright,” she conceded, eager to free herself from his grasp. He, however, did not let go. She swallowed, keeping her gaze level with his, and spoke in the friendliest tone she could muster. “May I ask your name, sir?”

He chuckled and replied, “Please, just refer to me as The Undertaker.” Her eyebrow rose in curiosity once again.

“Undertaker?” she repeated questioningly. The man then laughed and, at last, released her from his grasp. She turned and began slowly walking toward the door.

“Remember to come back,” he called from behind the counter. She turned and peered at him from over her shoulder just before exiting.

“I will,” she assured. Though she wasn’t exactly sure if she was being honest, but it seemed the only thing that would pacify the peculiar man. She stepped out onto the sidewalk and inhaled deeply. She rubbed her wrist where he had held her. His grip wasn’t tight, but the strange action greatly confused her.

“Un home etrange, en effet…” she muttered to herself before shaking her head and releasing her wrist. She glanced around the street, ensuring that the police car was no longer in sight. It wasn’t. Satisfied, she resumed walking home. However, she was unaware of the scarlet colored eyes that watched her as she rounded the corner toward her flat.

* * *

  
It was still daylight, but she didn't care. She was exhausted from staying up the entire night proir on one of Voclain's "missions". She often was not able to get any sleep because of such things. Strangely, though, it did not particularly bother her. Yes it was a nuisance at times, especially when she found herself tired and run-down. But usually, it gave her a sense of pride. It was a rush, too. She craved the feeling of adrenaline coursing through her body. It was like a drug. Everything seemed like a drug, now. For the past three years she had been an addict; addicted to Voclain and the life he offered. She simply couldn't resist. She loved pleasing him; making him admire and lust after her. She had fallen down the rabbit hole, and found Wonderland a much better place than the life she had left in Paris. Every fiber of her being was centered around Voclain now, and she reveled in its warmness and luster.

Her ears fastened onto the sound of the tumblers moving, unlocking her door as she turned and pulled her key out of the lock. Tiredly, she opened the door and stepped inside the relatively small flat. It held a single bedroom, one-and-a-half bath, a small kitchen, and a living area in which to entertain guests. She chuckled softly at this thought. Who had she to entertain? Voclain would never come here. Nor would any of his men. The only people left that she had to entertain were friends, which she did not possess. Besides Voclain and his men, she had no one. Strangely, though, she was perfectly content with this. What use were friends? She was forced to spend most of her present life alone, in secret. Practically everything she did was illegal; friends would only jeopardize everything she had worked so hard to achieve. The balance in her life would be tampered with should anyone try and wriggle their way into her company.

Sighing, she made her way into her bedroom and seated herself on the black leather bench that sat at the end of her bed and began to unzip her boots. With care and precision she slowly pulled down the zippers, each starting at the back of her calves, just below her knees. Their Brown Gucci symbols became slightly skewed as the boots loosened and eventually drooped off of her legs. Pulling them off her feet she re-zipped them, packed them with paper to keep their shape, and put them back into their respective box, which she returned to the top shelf of her walk-in closet. She had to admit, though small, her flat was considerably nice. Voclain paid the rent every month on it, as well as funded her expensive taste in clothing, all in exchange for her services. She supposed these were just other ways Voclain managed to keep control over her, but she didn't mind. He had a right to want to ensure her position and lifestyle. She was, after all, his employee.

Well, in a way.

She smirked devilishly at this thought and, after changing into her short, red, silk nightdress, climbed into her bed, allowing the black silk sheets to encase her body and caress her skin soothingly. The black-out curtains were drawn to that no light was allowed to enter the room. She reached over to place her phone on the nightstand beside her, placing the ringer on loud so that if Voclain needed her, she would be able to hear him calling. Sighing softly, she nestled into the plushness of her mattress and sheets, allowing herself to obtain some much deserved sleep.

 

* * *

 

Author's Note:

Hello! I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter of "Blood Soaked Blonde."

 


	2. Phantomhive, Michaelis, and Jimmy Choo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After meeting the red-eyed man once again, Ms. Dufort is given yet another mission from Voclain. Once she returns home she finds two people waiting for her, and the short one with the eye patch has a proposal for her.

It was 11:49 in the evening when she awoke. Stretching, she sighed and rolled on her back, staring blankly into the dark. She narrowed her eyes, irritated that she had woken at such an awkward time. She itched to go out. To do _something_. But what? The only places that would be open at this time of night would most likely be the pubs. She gave a faint, frustrated ‘Tsk’ and flung the sheets off of her, clambering out of bed. If anything, she would at least go for a walk. 

After slipping on some clothing, running a comb through her hair, and fixing her face, she was off. Locking the door to her flat behind her, she slipped on the black trench coat she had grabbed just before leaving and began walking. Cars and taxis were still moving about, illuminating the sidewalk ahead of her as she made her way down the block. About twenty minutes later she found herself walking down the street toward the café she had been at just this morning.

Smirking to herself, she shook her head and entered the establishment.

* * *

 She sipped her coffee while seated on one of the plush leather armchairs that surrounded one of the three wooden coffee tables that were placed around the café. She was not working, thus she refused to sit at her usual table. Glancing around, she sipped the drink, allowing it to warm her from within. She smiled softly to herself, contented; until someone seated themselves in one of the armchairs beside her.  

 

“Good evening,” a velvety voice greeted from beside her. She narrowed her eyes unwelcomingly, refusing to look at the person who had interrupted her time of silence and serenity. 

“Hello,” she answered begrudgingly, taking another sip of her coffee. 

“Actually, I suppose it should be ‘good morning’, now. Shouldn’t it?” The voice chuckled tunefully at his own little joke. She nodded, still refusing to make eye contact with the person. She glanced at the clock that sat on the wall, high above the floor. It read 12:41. She silently cursed the being sitting next to her, and willed for him to leave. 

“It’s Ms. Dufort, isn’t it?”

Her eyes widened in surprise as she snapped her head to look at the stranger who somehow had known her name. Who she saw sitting in the armchair adjacent to hers made her even more surprised. It was the man from The Undertaker’s shop; the one with the strange scarlet eyes. Her eyebrows rose in shock. 

“You are the man from the shop…” she murmured, thumbing the small handle on her coffee cup. The man chuckled again, his black hair, which  reached just above his shoulders, swung slightly with his laughter. 

“I suppose I am,” he replied, amused at the woman’s surprise. 

“How do you know my name?” she questioned, her gaze hardening. The man smirked and sipped his drink. Irritated at her lack of an answer, she repeated herself. This time more forcibly. 

“How do you know my name?” Her voiced escaped her lips in a growl.

Smirking to himself, the man then calmly set his cup down on the coffee table in front of them, rose, and exited the café without another word. She stared at him, speechless, as he left her company without another word. 

“Ce que la baise?” she whispered to herself, dumbfounded. She looked down at the table, utterly confused. Her eyes then locked with a small white object protruding from beneath the red-eyed man’s cup he had set down before leaving. She reached for it, slipping it out from underneath the white porcelain cup, and held up so that she could read it.

 

_I am looking forward to meeting you, Ms. Dufort._

_-C. Phantomhive_

 

Her brows furrowed in confusion. She suddenly regretted going out tonight.

Biting her lip in frustration, she rose and left the coffee shop, a positively sour expression adorning her face.

* * *

 

She did not sleep the rest of the night after she returned home, feeling angry and afraid. Was that man she met last night “C. Phantomhive”? If so, what a positively ridiculous and pretentious name.

She grit her teeth, pacing the floor. It was twelve in the afternoon. Was this Phantomhive man implying he was going to meet her somewhere? She glanced at the card again, which she still held in her hand. Nothing else was written either on the front or back other than the words she had read last night. She hissed in frustration. This was ridiculous. What could “C. Phantomhive” want with her? She didn’t associate with anyone other than Voclain and his men. How could that man last night have known her name? Frustrated, she yanked her coat off the back of the couch and left her flat, slamming and locking the door behind her. 

She was in a frenzy. Dread, anxiety and rage filled her to the brim. She screamed inwardly. In an attempt to subdue her fury, she punched a nearby tree that stood in the middle of a small, gated square on the sidewalk. She yiped faintly in pain, regretting her sudden outburst. She gave the tree a scowl and turned, resuming walking down the block away from her flat.

Suddenly, a vibration sounded from her pocket, halting her silent tantrum. She pulled it out and looked at its screen to find a message from a number she recognized as Voclain’s. It read:

_You aren’t home._

She walked over and sat on a nearby iron bench, flinging her leg over the other, crossing them, and hurriedly answered Voclain’s message.

_I know. I apologize._

She waited a minute.

_You will find a folder containing details regarding tonight’s job under your mat. Read it over before you go._

She narrowed her eyes and answered.

_I will. Café tomorrow morning then? For the drop-off?_

She waited.

_Yes. Nine o’clock._

She sighed. For once, she didn’t find herself eager to work tonight. After all the stress put upon her by that man and his note the night prior, she was high-strung and in a positively foul mood. But, there was no defying Voclain. When he asked for something to be done, it was done. She sighed and, feeling a wave of exhaustion sweep over her, allowed her head to lean back. She gazed at the clouds as they gathered into one large, gray mass. It would surely begin to rain soon. She hated rain.

Suddenly unable to keep her eyes open any longer, she began to doze, her head still positioned looking up toward the sky, as if waiting in earnest for the first drop to fall.

* * *

 

She awoke what seemed like several mere minutes after.

Blinking from behind her sunglasses, which protected her eyes from the falling rain. It was then that she realized she was soaked. 

Her shoes were probably ruined by now. 

“Merde!” she exclaimed, leaping off the bench. Terrified at the thought of ruining her Jimmy Choo’s, she began walking swiftly toward her flat. It was only a couple of blocks away from the bench she had napped on, thus it didn’t take her long to arrive there. Before entering, however, she bent down and lifted up her mat in order to retrieve what Voclain had probably instructed one of his men leave for her.

Stretching out a well-maincured hand, she felt under the mat. However, her hand met only concrete.

She looked down, searching frantically for the folder, but it was not there. She looked around the entryway; perhaps it had blown into the bushes. No. It was not outside.

She bit her lip, worry seeping into her very core. Glancing around to check once more, she noticed that her door was very slightly ajar. Her eyes narrowed as she opened her trench coat and retrieved from its hidden inner pocket, a small handgun. Slowly, she pushed open her door and, with her gun pointed in front of her, entered her flat.

* * *

 

The lights were all on, illuminating the cranberry-colored walls and black and white furniture. She grit her teeth, adrenaline and anxiety coursing through her veins. Her eyes immediately fell on two figures seated on her couch. One, from behind, looked rather short with peculiar, almost slate-colored hair. The other was taller, with jet-black hair. Her eyes narrowed. 

“What are you doing in my home?!” she demanded, kicking the front door closed behind her with her heel. The two figures turned to look at her. Her eyes widened when they fell upon the black-haired man she had seen several times the day before. She pointed her gun immediately at his head. 

“ _You_!” she gasped, tightening her grip on the small weapon in her hand. The man remained motionless, glancing down at the young man beside him who was just now standing. The younger one had an eye patch over one eye, she noticed. He, like the taller man, was dressed nicely. 

“Ms. Dufort.” She blinked, surprised at the boy’s authoritative tone. “Please put the gun down. We aren't here to harm you.” She narrowed her eyes in suspicion at him, but, after several silent moments, lowered her weapon and put it back into her pocket. 

“Please, do come and chat,” the tall, red-eyed man said in a sly tone. She glared at them both, but removed her soaked coat and placed it on the coat rack behind her that sat next to the door. She noticed, irritated, that they too had hung their coats on her coat rack as well. She scowled and turned, slowly making her way toward the sunken living area where they were standing. After stopping to stand in front of them, she saw that the young man had, in his small hands, a manila folder. Her eyes widened when she realized that that had been what Voclain had left for her. 

“I believe _that_ ,” she spat, pointing to the folder in the boy’s hands, “belongs to _me_.” The boy glanced down uninterestedly at the folder in his hands and shrugged. 

“Cooperate with us, and I may be inclined to return it to you.” He smiled impishly, which only made her angrier. 

“How dare you,” she whispered, clenching her fist. “You come into my home and steal my property!” The two males looked at each other and smirked. 

“My, you do speak rather eloquently, considering English is your second language,” the red-eyed man observed, his lips still pulled into a smirk.

“Do not patronize me, _you_!” she shouted, pointing a finger at the man. He merely chuckled, soon becoming silent once again.

“Please, Ms. Dufort. Control yourself. We will only take a short amount of your time.” She glared at the boy that had spoken. 

“Then say what you have come to say!” she demanded. The boy nodded. 

“We have come to strike a deal with you,” he stated simply, his uncovered sapphire-colored eye looking straight into hers. She quirked an eyebrow at him. 

“A deal?” she questioned. The red-eyed man beside her spoke up. 

“Indeed. We know that you work for a man named Voclain.”

Her heart lurched. How? They had all been so careful! Voclain always covered his trace wherever he went, as did everyone who worked for him.

The two saw the obvious look of shock that was now plastered across her face and exchanged knowing glances. 

“Have you heard of Phantomhive Agency?” She looked back at the boy. 

“No.” 

“I wouldn’t have expected you to. However, I _am_ assuming you’ve heard of Funtom Enterprises?” he asked expectantly, raising his eyebrow. 

“Yes.” Her voice was quiet. These two men could have her arrested on the spot. Simply working for Voclain was practically reason enough to have her imprisoned. Her stomach churned.

The boy continued, “I am Ciel Phantomhive, the head of Funtom Enterprises.” She looked at him, surprised. How could this young man be the CEO executive of a vast cooperation? 

“So you are ‘C. Phantomhive’,” she murmured. “I thought it was _him_.” She motioned to the red-eyed man. The boy scoffed. 

“No, that man is Sebastian Michaelis. He is my comrade, I suppose you could say.” Ciel then sighed and seated himself back on the couch, looking up at her. 

“As I was saying, I am the head of Funtom Enterprises, as well as Phantomhive Agency, which is an elite team of investigators and specially trained agents. Our agency is under direct orders from the queen. The majority of the cases we handle usually involve high profile crimes unfit for normal law enforcement to deal with...” 

“So you are similar to James Bond, then?” she asked mockingly. The boy sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, smirking. 

“In a way, I suppose we are,” he answered, slightly amused.

“ _Please_ ,” she sighed, pointing desperately to herself, “what does all this have to do with _me_? Why did your card say that you were looking forward to meeting with me?” The boy looked at her with a firm gaze. 

“We need Voclain,” he answered simply. “And you, Ms. Dufort, are the only way that we can get to him.” Her eyes widened. 

“Me?” she whispered. 

“Yes. You see, you are the one that completes all of Voclain’s ‘missions’, correct?” Sebastian asked. She looked at him and narrowed her eyes, suspicious. 

“I am, yes.” 

Ciel spoke up; “That is why we need you. You are the most valuable member of his little ‘team’. Therefore, there is a better chance you would be able to hand Voclain over to us rather than one of his insignificant goons.” She looked at the boy. 

“I would have to…betray Voclain?” she asked hesitantly. 

“Yes,” Ciel answered definitively. 

“I am not sure if that would work out well. Voclain is extremely careful. He would never fall for any sort of trick,” she explained, fighting desperately to keep her voice level. How could she betray Voclain? After all he had done for her? All he had given her? She couldn’t betray him. She just couldn’t. 

“It wouldn’t be a trick, necessarily,” Ciel corrected, crossing his legs and draping his arm over the armrest of the black leather couch. 

“You _are_ his prized possession, after all,” a velvety voice whispered in her ear. She fought to keep from jumping in surprise at the sudden closeness. Sebastian leaned in closer and continued. “You’re his lover. His toy. If anyone would be able to coax him out into the open for us, it would be you.” She hissed and pushed the man away. 

“Do not say such things to me,” she warned. Sebastian looked at her for a moment, puzzled, and then began to chuckle. She clenched her fist and glared at him.

“Please, Ms. Dufort. We would like for you to work with us to put Voclain behind bars,” Ciel said. She whipped her head around to look at him, her rain-soaked blonde tresses twirling with her and attatching to her face in an alluring display.

 “I will not betray the one man who has given me so much!” she replied. “I am not one to sell out those who show kindness to me.” Ciel looked at her, taken slightly aback, then rolled back his head and began to laugh. She gritted her teeth, trying to control her anger at this boy’s patronizing laughter. 

“Voclain is a thieving, manipulative, murderous sadist _._  Any kindness he may have shown you in the past has merely been a manipulation tool. He is unable to care for anyone but himself. Just because he buys you pretty things and boffs you when he’s bored does not mean he cares about you Ms. Dufort, I promise you that.” She stared, speechless, at this young man in front of her. Anger began to boil within her. 

“Do not speak ill of him! You know nothing of him, or who he is! Yes, he is a criminal! But his punishment is _not_ for you to decide!” She pointed at the boy accusingly. “How dare you say something like that to me, you foolish _child_!” Ciel and Sebastian remained quiet, glancing at each other from the corners of their eyes. 

“Please, Ms. Selena,” Sebastian said, his voice soothing and calm. 

“Dufort,” she muttered dangerously, correcting him. Sebastian chuckled softly and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. 

“Please, Ms. _Dufort_ , excuse my employer. You are correct; he is but a child, and therefore lacks the tact and maturity necessary to converse with a woman regarding such tender topics.” Ciel glared at the man warningly. Sebastian, however, didn’t seem to notice nor care. “Please, consider our offer. Do not shut us out completely just yet. We are only here to help you.” She glared at him from the corner of her eye. 

“I do not require _help_. Especially from the likes of you two, or your secret _spies_.” Her tone was venomous. Regardless of Voclain’s deeds, she would not betray him. 

“Perhaps not now, but you will,” Ciel said, standing and looking harshly at her. 

“What makes you think such a thing?” she asked incredulously. Ciel smirked and threw a black folder onto her couch cushions. 

“Read it, and you will understand,” he answered gravely, turning toward the door. 

“It would be in your best interest to assist Phantomhive, Ms. Dufort. You see,” he said, looking over his shoulder and smiling innocently at her, “we will catch him eventually, with or without your help. Should we catch him without your help, you will surely be sent to prison.” She glared at him. “How do you think you will fair in a place like that, without your precious name brands and luxuries?” She cursed him silently. “Sebastian will be in contact with you to check up on your answer. I trust you won’t give him a hard time?” Ciel added as he opened the door to the flat. The rain was coming down harder now, causing a wave of cold, humid air to rush into the small space. She clenched her fist and watched as the boy left, grabbing his coat off of her coat rack. 

“You should seriously consider our offer, Ms. Dufort,” Sebastian said before walking toward the door. “Like my employer said, you and I will be in touch.” With that, he grabbed his coat, exited the flat, and closed the door behind him, trapping in what was left of the warm air inside.

She stood motionless in the middle of the living room, mulling over all that they had said to her. Her eyes aimlessly grazed over the room before they fell on the couch, where there now lay two folders; one black and one manila. Ciel must have discreetly dropped it along with the other he had given her before leaving. She bit her lip, wondering how in the world a mere child could be the head of Funtom Enterprises _and_ a secret government agency. She chuckled. It was almost ridiculous when one really thought about it. A secret agency full of spies and gadgets, all headed by one child who looked no older than about fifteen. She chuckled again, this time rubbing her temples in an effort to help her sort out of all this nonsense. She looked at the clock; 4:13. She sighed, composing herself and taking a seat on the couch.

Glancing down beside her, she reached for the manila folder and opened it. Inside were all the instructions regarding her job for Voclain later that evening. She read over the contents thoroughly, all the while silently cursing the eye patched boy and his red-eyed companion. How dare they say such things. They had a lot of gal. She would never betray Voclain, the man who had shown her the purpose of loyalty. The man who had given her so many wonderful things, who had shown her what true pleasure and passion felt like. She couldn’t turn her back on him. She just couldn’t. Criminal or not, he was hers. Her employer, her lover, her drug.

And she would fight for him until the end.

 

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**Author's Note:**

Hello! I hope you all like chapter two! Again, if any of you feel like commenting, giving suggestions, et cetera, feel free!

 


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